


Tailends from Moominvalley

by boorishbint



Series: little moomin fics [1]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: And Mymble has a soft spot for mumriks, Angst, Family Feels, First Meetings, Fluff, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Longing, Moomin has a soft spot for Little My, Moomin has absolutely no soft spot for the Joxter, Multi, Now with art included!!, Prompt Fic, Requited Love, Reunions, Romance, Sibling Bonding, Smoking, Snorkmaiden and Snufkin have an awkward friendship, Snufkin and Sniff bond over being orphans, Unrequited Love, but Snufkin is trying to quit Moomee honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boorishbint/pseuds/boorishbint
Summary: A collection of short one-word prompt fics from my tumblr.1). Snufkin + sore2). Snufkin + short3). Joxter + stinky4). Littly My + cute5). Snufkin + cold6). Sniff + nightmare7). Snorkmaiden + candid8). Moomin + moon9). Moominpapa and the Mymble discuss the Joxter (Bonus)10). Sniff + nightmare (Comic by wholemleko)
Relationships: Joxaren | The Joxter/Mymlan | The Mymble, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snorkfröken | The Snork Maiden, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Series: little moomin fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095095
Comments: 58
Kudos: 312





	1. Snufkin + Sore

‘Stop pouting.’

‘I’m not pouting.’

‘Oh no?’ Little My says, before putting both hands to her cheeks and squishing them so her lips pucker. ‘What’d you call this face you have on then?’

Snufkin sniffs, offended but hardly going to admit to such. He continues with what he’s doing, which is currently whittling down a stray antler he’s found. It will make a nice handle for something, he thinks, but gripping the knife causes another seize in his wrist.

Little My notices.

‘You’re hurt,’ she says, dropping her hands down to her hips. She’s standing on the log Snufkin is leaning against, so she almost matches him head to head like this.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘You don’t wince for nothing. What did you do?’

‘What makes you think I did something?’

‘You’re always doing something daft,’ Little My replies primly, which richer than a tea biscuit coming from her. Snufkin says as much with a wry glance in her direction. ‘So go on, then. Tell me.’

‘I fell,’ Snufkin tells her which is certainly half true and he stops whittling, flexing his fingers around the handle of knife. The pain shoots up his under arm.

‘Careless thing to do with no Moomintroll around to catch you.’

Snufkin coughs, bashful and he dips his head to hide his face. ‘I-I don’t- Moomintroll doesn’t catch me.’

‘Not this time, evidently,’ Little My says and she holds a small hand out. When Snufkin does nothing but stare at it under the brim of his hat she tuts. ‘Let me see, you nit.’

Snufkin hesitates. ‘There’s nothing to see. There was a root and I tripped over it.’

‘Stupid,’ Little My says and Snufkin supposes he can’t argue with that. ‘Let me see.’

Snufkin weighs his options before giving in. He puts the antler and knife down on his lap and holds the hand over, shaking down his sleeve with a wince. Little My inspects it with tiny, thin fingers, then hisses like something startled.

‘You daft git!’ she says and Snufkin snatches his hand back, mortified. ‘That’s as purple as a black currant! What did you do?’

‘I told you,’ Snufkin says, covering his bruise back up with his sleeve. ‘Tripped over a root.’

‘And fell down what? A well?’

‘No, I just-’

‘You need to go to Moominhouse.’

‘No,’ Snufkin says, firm on that. ‘Absolutely not. I don’t need anyone fretting over nothing.’

‘Don’t want Moomintroll fretting more like,’ Little My replies archly and Snufkin is glad of his hat as his cheeks burn. ‘You won’t do anyone any good if you keep using it like that.’

‘It’s just a bruise.’

‘And it’s as ugly as your old, tatty boots.’

Snufkin looks up just to frown at her for that. Old and tatty as they may be, he’s quite fond of these boots. Little My tuts at him, shaking her head before she hops off the log and wanders off into the nearby bushes.

He watches her go, a little baffled by this abrupt departure but he’s not left without very long. She reveals herself again from under the fern bush but now there’s a short but sturdy branch in her hand.

She marches up to Snufkin proper, standing before him and holding a hand out expectantly. Snufkin blinks, unsure but he gives his injured wrist out. Little My rolls up his sleeve and puts the stick to it before, most surprisingly, tugging at the bow around her neck.

The ribbon comes undone quicky and slips away. They sit silently together as Little My straps the stick to Snufkin’s wrist, tugging a touch roughly but Snufkin holds back his flinch. When the makeshift splint is finished, she steps back.

‘Give it the rest of the day or you’ll just have to start over,’ she says to him, sounding most stern and Snufkin isn’t sure whether to frown or smile.

‘Where did you learn such sensible things?’

‘I have a lot of experience kissing booboos and sticking plasters,’ Little My says stiffly, but Snufkin doesn’t buy her tone for a moment. His chest feels warm inside, like coffee brewing in a pot. ‘Baby siblings are a pain like that.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Good for you there’s me then, isn’t it?’ Little My replies before tottering away as quickly as she’d come back.


	2. Snufkin + Short

Everyone has said it to him this season, but Moomin hasn’t noticed it much himself. That is until right now this very moment, as for the first time ever, Moomin has met Snufkin on the bridge and has had to glance _down_.

Admittedly, not very much down. But it’s down all the same and Snufkin must be thinking the very same thing as his eyes have gone very round; that lovely chestnut kind of round they go when surprised. For not only must Moomin look down, but Snufkin must look up.

That is… certainly new.

‘Moomintroll,’ Snufkin says, the first thing he’s said this Spring as it so often is but it sounds a little different this time. Everything seems to be a little bit different this time.

‘Snufkin,’ Moomin says again, as he’s been saying it since spotting Snufkin from his bedroom window. ‘You’re here.’

‘So are you,’ Snufkin says, which makes no sense really but he seems a touch distracted. ‘More of you than usual though, it seems.’

Moomin flushes and all the fur on the back of his neck stands up. He rubs at his neck awkwardly. ‘Ah. Yes. Mama said I’d gotten taller.’

Snufkin doesn’t reply, just keeps staring and while Moomin is used to all manners of quiet from his dearest friend, he’d rather hoped for something a bit more than… well, quiet. Truth be told, Moomin had thought Snufkin might even be a touch impressed with him.

‘Not many creatures manage a growth spurt in Winter, you know,’ Moomin continues, chancing his paw. Snufkin tilts his eye, still quiet. ‘But I am a proper grown Moomin in my own right, only fair the rest of me caught up to that I suppose.’

‘It…’ Snufkin starts then stops, ducking his head and Moomin realises a downside to this taller business- Snufkin can hide much easier now. ‘It suits you splendidly.’

Moomin beams. ‘You think so?’

‘Yes,’ Snufkin says, still hidden. He laughs though and that makes Moomin feel a bit better about it. ‘Perhaps I need higher heels to my boots if I’m to keep up.’

‘You don’t need to keep up, you’re grand the way you are,’ Moomin tells him honestly, reaching down to get one of Snufkin’s hands into his paw. ‘Come on! I’ve got so much to show you!’

There’s quite a bit to this being taller business, Moomin begins to learn throughout the day.

Firstly, if one is taller it seems they are to be taller in everything, as even sitting side by side on the grass in the garden Moomin still has to look down at Snufkin. It’s new and very lovely, but Moomin isn’t sure why it should be that and gets embarrassed every time he feels it.

Secondly, Moomin is able to do things for Snufkin he hadn’t before and Moomin wonders how they managed last season at all. Things like taking Snufkin’s preferred tea cup down from the top press for him in the kitchen, or looping the rope for Snufkin’s tent to the top of the pole when asked.

But finally, being taller also lends itself to being quite a bit closer than usual as Moomin is used to meeting Snufkin in the same place. Now though, there’s a considerable bit of middle to navigate and what Moomin really means is that he’s coming close to brushing his snout right along Snufkin’s forehead every time they get close.

‘Oh!’ Moomin says for the hundredth time that day as he’s misjudged again where Snufkin might be and retreats before embarrassing himself quickly. ‘Sorry!’

Snufkin looks at him, open and a little pink from the sun. They’re walking by the stream, eyes out on the brambles for any early berries for Mama who fancies baking later.

Snufkin’s hat is titled further back than usual, so he can see Moomin better given the new situation and while it’s very nice it’s also not helping Moomin in the whole _trying to not kiss him by accident_ thing. At least if his hat were down there’d be a buffer.

‘Ah,’ Snufkin says slowly, as though getting a great thought. ‘I suppose this is new.’

Moomin puffs up like a dandelion, mortified that Snufkin seems to have noticed his silliness.

‘I’m so sorry, honest I’m not trying to-’

‘We’ll bump into each other like bees stuck in the same daisy at this rate,’ Snufkin says sensibly, cutting Moomin off. Snufkin hands his basket over to Moomin, who takes it with a baffled frown.

Snufkin then proceeds to plop himself down on the grass, fidgeting with the laces of his boots. Moomin watches with less and less idea of what he might be doing. Snufkin tugs off his boots, tying the laces of each to together and then shucking them over his shoulder as he stands up.

And oh. _Oh_.

‘Better?’ Snufkin asks him, which is a truly daft thing to ask him as Moomin thinks nothing could be lovelier than this.

‘You’re… short,’ Moomin tells him and Snufkin goes ruddy at once, but doesn’t look away. Without his boots, Snufkin stands so low Moomin could almost put his snout right on top of him.

It feels in Moomin’s stomach like that loud, cracking noise wood makes in the fire when it gets too hot.

‘And you’re tall,’ Snufkin replies and Moomin nods dumbly. ‘So I guess we’ll have to get used to meeting each other half way.’

At that, Snufkin takes his basket and gets back to berry picking. Moomin watches him, wondering how he’s never noticed before and he puts a paw to his chest, feeling the way his heart is racing. How many other things hasn’t he noticed before?


	3. Joxter + Stinky

Moomin stops dead in his tracks, unsure.

Moomins are creatures of many talents. Explorers, storytellers. Handsome and Moomin thinks himself a touch braver than the average creature also, if he does say so himself. They are creatures of friendships and warm hearths. And they are always creatures of exceptionally large and sensitive noses.

Though perhaps on this occasion _too_ sensitive.

He’s on the wood path, making his way back from a misadventure with Sniff and Littly My that has ended with her chasing the former back round the meadow. But something has stopped him and that something is right up his nose.

It’s a musky, damp smell. A touch heady, too. Like stuffy perfume but the kind that’s been sprayed on well-worn clothes that were then left out in the rain, and then not dried but instead crumpled in a corner to grow very damp and unpleasant. And also perhaps dipped in old cooking oil that lingers with meat long discoloured.

Not that Moomin is to be specific about it. But the long and the short of it is, it’s a very strong and very unpleasant smell and Moomin stops, quite confused as to where such a thing could ever come from.

He isn’t confused long, as Moomin takes one turn around a tree and finds the offending creature. Which only serves to stun Moomin more.

To say Moomin has never seen a creature of the like would be a lie. For he very much has but that like is Snufkin, and it must be quite impossible for these two someones to have anything in common.

Yet.

The creature is taller, like Snufkin had been tugged out in places like old elastic. He’s lying down in some long grass that sprouts by a tree, a strikingly similar hat over his face as he apparently sleeps. He’s got heeled boots crossed at the ankle and a long, rope-like tail that coils over his lap.

‘Ho there?’ Moomin asks, nervous but he comes close all the same. The creature moves to tilt his head back with dark paws, black like soot.

‘Ho here,’ he replies, accent familiar too. Moomin frowns. ‘Why look! A Moomin!’

‘Uh. Yes,’ Moomin says, thrown. ‘Who are you?’

‘The Joxter.’

‘What’s a Joxter?’

‘Not _a_ Joxter,’ the Joxter corrects, sitting up and replacing his hat on his head. His face is sharp, with a pointed nose and unkempt fur that sticks out at odd angles from his cheeks. ‘ _The_. Though if I’m an anyhting, it’s a Mumrik.’

_Ah, so that’s it then,_ Moomin thinks. The same as Snufkin but most certainly not either. Snufkin can be a bit scruffy but Moomin has never thought him to smell outright unpleasant. The Joxter most definitely smells unpleasant. Moomin has never met another Mumrik before and wonders if they are all as different.

‘I see,’ Moomin says cautiously. ‘And what brings you to Moominvalley, Joxter?’

‘I’m looking for someone. And also possibly a house, if it happens to be the same direction as my someone. Perhaps you know it, being a Moomin yourself.’

‘Which house?’ Moomin asks, suspicious.

‘Moominhouse. Surely you must know it as you wouldn’t be as unlucky as to have family near and not know them,’ the Joxter says before a strange expression flickers over his angular face. ‘Terrible thing that, you know.’

‘I know it as it’s my house,’ Moomin says and the Joxter’s ears prick up, their points like arrowheads. ‘Well, my father built it…’

‘Did he now,’ the Joxter says, sounding interested. But instead of moving, he digs around in the pocket of his tattered smock and takes out a pipe. ‘That’ll do nicely, little Moomin.’

Moomin bristles. ‘I’m not little.’

The Joxter looks over his pipe as he bites on the end of it, fishing now for matches it seems. ‘No. I suppose one could you accuse you of much but not being little.’

The bristle grows. The Joxter lays back further on his grass as he lights his pipe. He blows out long streams of smoke from his large nose and it clouds up and right into Moomin’s face. The idea of that coming into the house makes Moomin grit his teeth.

‘That- er, tobacco you’re smoking there smells rather strong,’ Moomin says, hoping he’s not being rude in saying so but his eyes are watering. The Joxter blows smoke rings.

‘It’s not tobacco,’ the Joxter says and Moomin waves a paw as the smoke rings hit him on the snout.

‘All the same,’ Moomin says, holding his breath. ‘I think I saw some mint leaves a ways back, I can get you some before coming to the house if you like?’

The Joxter takes a deep puff of his pipe, eyes fixed onMoomin’s face. Moomin tries not to shrink away but really, this creature has the most unnerving eyes he’s ever seen. Blue like paint.

‘Are you saying you don’t like the way smell, troll?’

‘No, no! Not at all, I just thought- well, you know!’ Moomin is babbling and his fur sticks up straight all over as he flushes from ears to toes. ‘You might want to clear that pipe smoke from your breath before company.’

The Joxter seems to think on that for a moment.

‘It’s not just the pipeweed you’re taking offence to.’

That may be true but Moomin was raised better than to admit such. But at the very least, if this shabby vagabond is to be in his house then the pipeweed is the one he may be able to somewhat solve.

‘Well, you’ve clearly been travelling a long ways,’ Moomin says in what he feels is a diplomatic manner. The Joxter’s tail flicks. ‘I can show you to the stream if you’d like the chance to freshen up a bit better.’

‘Need the smell,’ the Joxter says bizarrely as Moomin can’t think as to why anyone would want this musky, cloying scent. The Joxter taps his nose. ‘Otherwise how will my son find me? Only polite to give him fair warning.’

‘Your son?’ Moomin asks, suddenly very curious. ‘Who’s your son?’

‘It’s the least of what noses are for, you know,’ the Joxter says sagely though he looks far from anything of the like. ‘Especially when he was blessed with mine.’

Moomin tries not to be offended at how he’s been ignored and decides that he doesn’t like this Joxter very much. Or indeed at all. Time to write off this whole thing, Moomin thinks and with any luck, the breeze will keep the scent behind him.

‘Well, then,’ Moomin says, brushing at his coat awkwardly and the Joxter looks like he might smile. ‘Good luck with that then. I hope you have a pleasant day and your son finds you.’

‘I hope that every day, little Moomin,’ the Joxter says and Moomin chews the inside of his cheek. The Joxter laughs full of smoke. ‘Sorry. Big Moomin.’

Moomin doesn’t think that’s better but he’s quite out of patience now. He bids goodbye and heads along, hoping that he not have the bad run of it to cross paths with the Joxter’s son, who Moomin doesn’t doubt to be just as unpleasant. For what else could the son of a Joxter be?


	4. Little My + Cute

There’s a very funny noise coming from the cupboard. 

Moomin eyes it with great suspicion. Cupboards shouldn’t being making any noise any which way, of course, but something about this particular rattling is giving Moomin the heebie-jeebies. Or it would, if he weren’t so grown as to not feel heebs in any of his jeebs.

Still though… better to be cautious.

Moomin slips from his bed, leaving the book he’d been reading behind him and tiptoes up to the cupboard. Can’t be anything dangerous surely. He’d have noticed something dangerous sneaking in.

All the same, Moomin grabs blindly for his badminton racquet.He raises it over his head, holding a paw that is most certainly not shaking out to open the cupboard. Once he does, he nearly drops the racquet.

‘What the-!’

There’s a child in the cupboard. Moomin freezes as the small thing yelps with fright, disappearing behind an old raincoat inside. Moomin watches as her tiny hands scramble to cover herself with it.

‘Go away!’ she says, as though Moomin were the rude one here. Moomin frowns, unsure as that sounds awfully like…

‘Little My?’

A wellington boot flies out of the cupboard and hits Moomin squarely on the snout. Moomin shouts, (ow!), and drops his racquet to rub at where he’s been struck by this wellie.

‘I said sod off!’

‘That hurt, you know!’ Moomin says, utterly confident it is Little My for who else would be so bold as to tell him to sod off from his own bedroom cupboard. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Nothing! Never mind!’ Little My replies from where she’s hidden. Moomin frowns- not like Little My at all to not boast about her trouble. He inches closer, reaching in to tug the raincoat out of the way. Another wellie flies out but this time Moomin ducks.

‘Stop chucking things, will you?’ Moomin says, pulling on the raincoat. Little My pulls back, still hidden. ‘What’s the matter, eh? I didn’t even know you were in here!’

‘Then go back to not knowing!’

‘Honestly!’ Moomin gets both paws and yanks. ‘This is ridiculous!’

The raincoat flies out and Little My tumbles out after it. Moomin lands back on his arse with a thump, caught off-guard with how easy it’s all come undone. The raincoat has flapped over his head and he goes to pull it off, but two little hands press to his snout to stop him.

‘No, don’t! I don’t want you to see!’

Blind-folded by a raincoat, Moomin asks; ‘See what?’

‘You’ll laugh.’

Moomin very much doubts that. He never finds Little My’s jokes very funny. But he manages to get the raincoat off though, too quick for Little My it seems and when he gets a look at her, he definitely doesn’t laugh. Even if it were to, he thinks he’d be too surprised.

No wonder he didn’t recognise her at first.

‘Your hair’s down,’ Moomin says, for it is. Long and a little curly, Little My’s hair tumbles down around her shoulders and fluffs about her face. She blows at a strand and it goes up, before flopping back down.

‘Excellent observation, Moomintroll. Who knew your eyes were as big as your snout?’

Moomin ignores that. ‘I’ve never seen you with your hair down before.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t think so!’ she says, gathering it up and shucking it on top of her head. But there’s nothing to tie it with and the whole orange mess of it comes back down again. ‘It’s not very proper.’

‘Since when do you care about that?’

‘Oh, just shut it, will you! Should’ve known you wouldn’t get it,’ she says, more acerbic than usual. She makes a funny sighing noise quite unlike her. ‘I broke my bobble this morning. It snapped! Can you believe it?’

Moomin can really as he’s seen Snorkmaiden do it more time than he can count. Girls can really be tough on things, he thinks but he doesn’t fancy pointing that out right now. With the look Little My has on her face anyway.

‘Well, it’s not so bad,’ Moomin tells her gently. ‘If anything it’s kind of nice seeing you with your hair down. Cute, really.’

Wrong thing to say. ‘I’m not cute. I’m bigger than you.’

‘I don’t know if bigger is the right word-’

‘And it won’t be so cute running around not being able to see where I’m going!’ Little My continues, not at all interested in technicalities it seems. ‘There’s nothing like a bobble in this house! I thought you might have something with how often Snorkmaiden comes round, but if there is I haven’t seen it yet.’

Moomin thinks for a moment. Nice as he truly thinks it is to see Little My so undone for a change, there’s something nagging at the way she’s holding herself. Despite there actually being more of her than usual she seems… smaller. Moomin finds he doesn’t fancy that much at all. 

‘I’m quite a good fisherman, you know.’

‘Bully for you. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Well, it’s all knot-tying, isn’t it?’

Little My glances at him, green eyes astute through the hair in her face. Moomin gets up and holds a paw down to her, offering her a lift up to the bed. ‘Sit here and I’ll find something for it.’

That something turns out to be a bit of lace trimming from one of the fancier shirts Moomin has never worn. (Like most gifts given from Mrs Fillyjonk). He does his best and he thinks he’s fastened it pretty tight for the intensity that is a day in the life of Little My, but as he stands back, it appears a touch crooked.

‘Alright,’ he says awkwardly, watching Little My leap from the bed to the dresser to inspect herself in the mirror. ‘Maybe we’d have been better off waiting for Snorkmaiden, but that knot will hold until the end of the day anyway. Maybe tomorrow we can find you something better?’

Little My turns this way and that, humming thoughtfully. ‘It’s good.’

‘Not too crooked?’

‘Everything you do is lopsided one way or another,’ Little My replies plainly and Moomin flushes, offended. ‘But I have to say, I rather like when that side is mine.’

‘Oh,’ Moomin says, watching her hop down and head for the door. ‘Well, glad you like it.’

‘Come on then!’ she says, waiting for him. Which is a change. ‘I’ve got plans!’

Moomin doesn’t doubt that.


	5. Snufkin + Cold

Snufkin stops his song-playing to look up. There’s snow falling.

He holds a hand out, watching small snowflakes stick to his gloves. He’d thought himself ahead of it, leaving when he did, but it appears Winter has caught up with him all the same.

‘My, my!’ a voice says and Snufkin turns, only to look up. He keeps looking, tilting his head up so far his hat nearly slips from his head. ‘A Mumrik! All alone, but I suppose that is better for you, isn’t it?’

It’s a woman. A rather tall, large woman of the like Snufkin hasn’t met at all before. He watches as she walks over from the path, stepping over the small bushes in heeled boots. Why such a creature would be wanting for more height is beyond him, but she seems rather grand. Her coat is purple and furred.

‘May I sit with your fire a while, little one?’ she asks when she gets closer to Snufkin’s camp. She has a fair face, round and pink. Snufkin likes the look of her.

‘You may, though I must warn you that I may move along soon.’

‘As must I. I’m on my way to collect my children but my hands are so cold I fear I’ll lose all my fingers before I can use them to count who needs collecting!’

Snufkin watches as the woman kneels down neatly, back straight and proper. Her manners make him feel self-conscious, which is very strange as Snufkin usually does not care for such things. Perhaps it is because of how very large she is, but Snufkin feels a sense of implied propriety all the same.

He ignores it though, always happier to be contrary even if only to himself.

‘Was it your music I heard a moment ago?’ the woman asks, eyes on Snufkin over the fire. Snufkin taps his harmonica against his palm and she hums. ‘You’re very talented, little one.’

Snufkin shrugs. ‘That’s kind of you to say.’

‘Kind of you to let me sit by your fire,’ the woman replies with a smile. She is like someone to be painted, Snufkin thinks. Very grand indeed. ‘I’m the Mymble.’

‘Oh!’ Snufkin says, completely surprised as they seem nothing alike. ‘Little My’s mother!’

‘Why yes!’ The Mymble’s smile gets bigger. ‘How well-informed you are for so little a thing!’

The way she coddles him so and calls him _little_ reminds Snufkin fiercely of Moominmama. A strange connection as any of the thoughts he’s had about the Mymble so far, but it lingers like a nettle sting. Somewhere not always tender inside of him makes itself known again and Snufkin pockets his harmonica, reaching over for his pack for something to distract.

‘I haven’t much, but there’s bread if you’ll like it.’

Snufkin leans over, his back to the Mymble and she makes a soft noise that has him turning right back to her.

‘Dear me, one of the buttons of your smock is coming away!’ the Mymble says, a delicate hand to her cheek as she does. ‘Shame I don’t have my sewing kit with me. I quite forgot it, along with a few other things now I think of it.’

‘Things can be easy to forget when we have many of them,’ Snufkin says, inspecting his smock best he can but he can’t turn his head like an owl to see the offending button. ‘But not to worry. I’ll stitch it myself soon enough.’

‘You sew?’

‘I everything,’ Snufkin says, not to be boastful but because it is mostly true. ‘I’ve been on my own since the beginning so there’s never been anyone to sew my buttons but myself.’

‘Not to break a habit of a lifetime, but if you have a kit with you I shall mend your button,’ the Mymble says and she holds out a large hand to Snufkin, as though he couldn’t possibly refuse her. Truly, he thinks he can’t anyway. ‘Come now, little one. It’s the least I can do and you mustn’t have it fail you when the snow is coming.’

Snufkin concedes only as he can’t think of something to say no with. He goes back to his pack and fidgets for his needle and thread, handing it over to the Mymble’s waiting hand. She takes it and starts to thread the eye, glancing over to him as she does. Snufkin gets her meaning, standing and takes his hat off so to easier pull his smock over his head.

She takes it from him. All around them snow is floating. The air is too cold for it to fall all the way to the ground and it hovers between them, like stars. Snufkin shivers.

‘Not to worry,’ the Mymble says, putting the needle down and going to unbutton her fine coat. ‘You shall wear this why I work.’

‘I couldn’t possibly-!’

But Snufkin is ignored. The Mymble stands to remove her coat and shucks it over Snufkin’s shoulders. It is so much bigger than him and indeed so much heavier his knees buckle and he almost falls back down to the ground. The Mymble sits as elegantly as anything.

‘You remind me of someone I knew some time ago, little one.’

‘Oh?’ Snufkin is shrouded in the Mymble’s warmth, breathing in the perfume the sticks to the fur collar of her coat. It smells like a garden, like something pink and lovely. Snufkin, despite himself, pulls the coat tighter.

‘Yes, but you are far neater. And more sensible. I doubt he had a button to his name, never mind a kit to sew it back on with.’

‘Like I said,’ Snufkin replies, very grateful to the Mymble for her coat but wondering how she isn’t cold herself without it. ‘Been on my own for a very long time. Wouldn’t do to not be sensible.’

‘You say it like it’s easy, little one,’ the Mymble laughs as she sews. ‘But sense is one of those things most easily forgotten. And I would know, you see, for I am the most forgetful creature I know.’

She laughs again, a bright noise and her breath clouds like smoke. Snufkin watches, a little awed.

‘In fact, I think being forgetful is the one thing about myself I can be relied on to remember,’ she says, winking at him. Snufkin can’t help but smile back at her, even as his hair starts to get damp with snow. The Mymble holds his smock up. ‘There now! Right as rain! Or snow, as the case may be.’

They exchange their coats. Once buttoned back up, the Mymble stands and towers like a great, elegant tree.

‘I best move along, or my children might think I’ve forgotten them!’ she says, putting a long finger to her lips and adds, less sure; ‘Again.’

‘I’m sure they’d forgive you.’

‘There’s that sense of yours again, little one,’ the Mymble says, patting Snufkin on the head. It’s very easy for her, being so tall. ‘But children don’t forgive parents. It’s one of the few gifts we can always give them. The right not to forgive us.’

Snufkin doesn’t have parents himself, but he can’t help but find that a very sad thought.

‘You be careful now,’ the Mymble says, starting her way back to the path. The grass has grown frosty and crunches under her heels. ‘This snow looks to be getting worse and I’d so like the chance to meet you again! So don’t go getting frozen!’

She walks off then, waving behind her and Snufkin waves back, less confident of it but he can’t refuse her. He watches her vanish into the creeping dark of the evening and tugs at his smock. He brings it up to his nose- the Mymble’s perfume is on him.

Snufkin breathes it in, tender once more. It’s the strangest thing, he can’t help but feel he’s smelled it somewhere before.


	6. Sniff + Nightmare

Sniff can’t get back to sleep. 

He tosses and turns a few times, jumping in his sleeping bag at every creak of Moominhouse around him. He sits up in a panic as Moomintroll let’s out a particularly loud snore, startling him. As he does, he sees one half of the bed has the linen pulled back. 

Snufkin is missing.

Surely nothing scary could really go about their sleepover if Snufkin is up and about, even this late in the night? Snufkin is the most sensible, after all. He wouldn’t be scared off all willy-nilly. 

Unless there’s something so scary it got him, of course…

Sniff gets up and goes straight to the bed, reaching over to shake Moomintroll. 

‘Moomintroll, Moomintroll!’

‘Whu-?’ Moomintroll rolls over, opens an eye. ‘Sn-Sniff?’ 

Moomintroll frowns at his pillow. 

‘Where’s Snufkin?’

‘He’s wandered off!’ Sniff whispers frantically. ‘Or possibly been gotten by something!’

Moomintroll sits up so fast he nearly butts heads with Sniff and Sniff falls back, landing on his tail to the floor. Moomintroll looks around. 

‘What’s got him? What do you mean?’ Moomintroll says, sounding panicked. 

‘Well, I don’t _know_ that!’ Sniff says and Moomintroll turns his frantic expression down to him. ‘I… had a bad dream. And I heard creaking! What if something’s come about from my dreams and gotten Snufkin?’

Moomintroll frowns. ‘You woke me up because you had a bad dream?’

‘A very bad dream!’

Moomintroll doesn’t look convinced. He shuffles out of the bed and heads to the window, opening it out to look about. He turns back to Sniff with a look that spells impatience. Sniff sees that look a lot. 

‘Snufkin’s got his pipe outside. Smell the smoke?’ Moomintroll says, shaking his snout. ‘He gets cravings at the oddest times. He’s trying to quit.’ Moomintroll adds, under his breath: ‘For like the millionth time.’

‘So he’s fine?’

‘No one else is going to be smoking that foul stuff,’ Moomintroll says, heading back to his bed. ‘And besides, if he wasn’t fine and it was your fault, you better believe I wouldn’t be heading back to bed. Now go to sleep and I’ll see you at breakfast.’ 

Moomintroll falls to sleep again quickly, a talent Sniff has always been a little impressed with not that he’d admit it. He hovers, unsure and finally makes a decision. He goes out the window and climbs down the ladder. 

Snufkin is sitting on the stoop of the front door, indeed a smoking as Moomintroll said. Snufkin tilts his head, smiling sheepishly when he sees Sniff. 

‘Don’t tell Moomintroll,’ Snufkin says, popping his lips off his pipe. ‘He thinks I’ve quit.’ 

Sniff doesn’t bother pointing out that Moomintroll most certainly does not think that, not all interested in the domestic that might ensue on it. Truly, Sniff doesn’t know the in’s and out’s of all that and further, he doesn’t want to.

(He’s always been better with numbers and sorting things out into neat little boxes than Moomintroll has and never has that been more apparent than with Moomintroll’s funny little game between Snufkin and Snorkmaiden). 

He sits himself down next to Snufkin, head in his hands and they both stare out into the dark of the valley. Snufkin blows smoke rings. 

‘Something on your mind?’

‘Snufkin, you’ve got no family, right? Just you?’ Sniff says to that and Snufkin closes his lips on his pipe, chews the bit for a moment before replying. 

‘Just me.’ 

‘It’s just me, too,’ Sniff replies, thoughts still on his nightmare. ‘What do you do when you get a bad dream and you’re on your own?’

‘I suppose that depends on how bad the dream is,’ Snufkin says, smoke billowing as he does. ‘I set up a fire. Play a song. If I’m here I might throw a stone at Moomintroll’s window.’ 

‘Do you ever-?’ Sniff stops himself and wonders if it’s a silly question. Snufkin tends to make Sniff feel like he asks silly questions. 

‘Ever what?’

‘Just… do you ever wake up from a nightmare and wish there was somebody there? Somebody who’s supposed to be there and tell you it’s alright?’

‘Somebody,’ Snufkin repeats, puffing again. ‘Like who?’

‘Well, Moomintroll has his parents, doesn’t he? And Little My had her mother. All we got is our own company,’ Sniff says and he thinks that while his company is fine, Snufkin must’ve been really suffering because Snufkin is at best… quiet company. 

(At worst, he’s terribly uppity, Sniff finds).

‘Me is all I’ve ever had,’ Snufkin says, sounding very sensible and Sniff supposés he would. ‘So I suppose I’ve never had to wish as I didn’t know there to be something I could wish for.’

‘Even now though? Now you know it could be?’

Snufkin doesn’t answer that. He keeps smoking and they both sit in the quiet, Sniff wondering if he’s said something wrong. That was another thing about Snufkin; Sniff could never tell if he’s ticked him off or not until it’s too late. 

‘Doesn’t do to dwell on that,’ Snufkin says plainly, letting the smoke out with the words. ‘Like your nightmare. It doesn’t feel good but then you wake up, don’t you? And when you’re awake, you realise there was nothing to feel bad for at all.’

Sniff has to mull that one over. ‘I guess so. So, you don’t feel bad about it anymore? Being just you?’

‘Do you?’

Sniff decides he doesn’t want to answer that. They sit together a touch longer, until Snufkin’s pipe goes out.


	7. Snorkmaiden + Candid

Someone knocks on the log outside his tent.

‘Moomintroll!’ Snufkin says brightly, pulling the tarp back so his friend might come in. Only it isn’t Moomintroll and Snufkin pauses, unsure. ‘Oh. I’m sorry, Snorkmaiden.’

‘No, it’s alright,’ Snorkmaiden tells him and they both hover, awkward. It’s always awkward with Snorkmaiden. ‘I know I’m not who you’re hoping for.’

Snufkin doesn’t answer that as it’s true, but he does come out of the tent. He replaces his hat on his head and holds a hand out to the log by the fire. Snorkmaiden takes her seat and Snufkin starts to work on coffee, fishing about for some flint to light a fire.

‘Don’t bother with that,’ Snorkmaiden says just as Snufkin finds it and he looks at her, curious. ‘Not really in the mood for a brew at the minute.’

That sounds quite ominous coming from Snorkmaiden, whom Snufkin has never seen turn down a cup of anything when offered even if she is partial for tea. But he does as bid and doesn’t bother lighting the fire, instead settling on the grass to look at her.

There’s a frown on her face, scrunched on the top of her snout. Truth be told, Snufkin is used to seeing a frown on Snorkmaiden’s face but that’s usually with Moomintroll or Little My about to cause said frown. Snufkin doubts he could’ve managed to get one specifically for him before he’s even said anything.

‘Can I ask you something, Snufkin?’

Snufkin nods.

‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’ Snorkmaiden asks, looking down at him and Snufkin blinks, baffled by the question. ‘I know not proper friends but-’

Snufkin interrupts; ‘What’s proper friends?’

‘I suppose that’s the big question, isn’t it?’ Snorkmaiden says with a sigh, resting her snout in her paws and Snufkin is really lost now. She glances at him and Snufkin has definitely seen this look before. And most certainly only ever in Moomintroll’s direction. ‘Boys really are a different kettle of fish entirely, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t think boys and girls can be sorted as easily as one kettle or another.’

Snorkmaiden huffs at him, blowing her fringe up for a moment as she does. It gets awkward then. Again. It always does with Snorkmaiden. She has a remarkable talent for making silence, (which Snufkin usually finds so lovely), seem as uncomfortable as a knobbly root through the floor of his tent.

‘You’re my friend,’ Snufkin says, desperate to wiggle his way out of the uncomfortable quiet. Snorkmaiden looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. ‘If that answers your question?’

‘That wasn’t the question.’

‘No?’

‘I suppose there’s not much point beating about the bush, is there?’ Snorkmaiden says, sitting up and a funny thing happens then. Her fur ripples, just for a moment, and Snufkin tilts his head, trying to guess the colour before it fades back to white. He hasn’t seen her change colour at all for a very long time. ‘Friends don’t lie, do they, Snufkin?’

‘A good one certainly doesn’t,’ Snufkin says slowly, unsure. ‘But perhaps a better one might depending on the situation.’

‘So you think it’s okay to lie sometimes?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly,’ Snufkin says, feeling cornered. This is very close to something Snufkin lies about every day. ‘Most things we say to our friends are true from a certain perspective. So perhaps not a lie in itself.’

‘Do you know what the word candid means, Snufkin?’ Snorkmaiden asks, sounding impatient. ‘Because to be honest, that roundabout way you talk makes me think you couldn’t be clear even if you were glass on a fine day.’

Snufkin isn’t sure if that offends, exactly, but it makes him uncomfortable to hear it. ‘What do you want me to be clear on?’

‘I guess I want to know if you’re a good friend who wouldn’t lie to me if I ask you something,’ Snorkmaiden says and Snufkin freezes. She watches him very closely. ‘Or if you’d just tell me little white lies to smooth it all over.’

‘Smooth what over?’ Snufkin asks, truly lost now and Snorkmaiden sits up, so much taller than him sitting up on that log. 

‘I think Moomintroll is going to break up with me,’ she says and Snufkin’s jaw drops. ‘And I want to know if you know anything about it because if he’s told anyone, he’s told you.’ 

‘I… what?’ Snufkin says, not at all keeping up and Snorkmaiden’s face crumbles. She turns a dark, moody purple all over. 

‘Oh gosh, oh no,’ she says, eyes shiny. ‘He is, isn’t he?’

‘I have no idea!’ Snufkin replies honestly but it may be too late for that. ‘Why would you think such a thing?’

Moomintroll may not always be the most… well, gentle of creatures, Snufkin must admit. But surely even he would have more tact in a situation like this than to letting poor Snorkmaiden wallow over it?

‘I don’t know if I can explain it,’ Snorkmaiden says, sniffling and goodness, Snufkin isn’t very good for creatures crying but he can’t let her alone like that. ‘Just a feeling, I guess.’

‘Now, now,’ Snufkin says, rushing up to her and putting a hand to her shoulder. She leans against him, ears drooping. ‘Moomintroll has said nothing of the sort to me. Cross my heart. Surely there must be a different reason for all this fuss?’

‘I can’t see what else it might be,’ she says to him, voice thick and Snufkin really wishes he were better than this. As it is, he pats her in what he hopes is a comforting manner. ‘He’s been so different lately, haven’t you noticed?’

Snufkin thinks about his next words carefully. He notices a great deal about Moomintroll and quite often, too. On account of the fact that Snufkin finds he’d rather look at no one else when all together but that’s all bundled up in the little lies Snufkin tells. 

‘I can’t say I’ve noticed anything different in how he acts with you,’ Snufkin says which is certainly true. Snorkmaiden sighs, sounding very forlorn indeed. 

‘Oh, Snufkin,’ she says, touching the hand on her shoulder with a soft paw. ‘You really don’t know a thing about love, do you?’

‘I know some things,’ Snufkin replies, quiet and feeling something turn in his stomach like a spindle. ‘I know it can be very unexpected. And not very easy to control. And most stubborn in being told to go away.’ 

‘Silly thing, why would anyone tell love to go away?’ Snorkmaiden days and Snufkin ducks his face down, tries to hide beneath his hat as perhaps that had been a touch too much to admit. ‘Like I said, you don’t know very much. I suppose you can’t help it, being a vagabond.’

‘I suppose I can’t,’ Snufkin says, thoughtful. ‘But I think I know it when I see it. And when I look at Moomintroll, I can see he cares for you very much.’ 

‘Then why is he being so strange?’

‘You must allow him to be strange every and now then,’ Snufkin says. ‘Whatever the matter is, I’m sure he’ll tell you when he’s ready.’

Snorkmaiden sniffs. ‘And what if I don’t like it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Snufkin tells her and when he glances at her, she has her eyebrows raised. ‘I don’t know everything, you know.’ 

‘Moomintroll thinks you do.’

‘Yes, well,’ Snufkin says, bashful and trying to hide it. ‘That doesn’t make it true, now does it?’

‘No, guess not,’ Snorkmaiden says and her purple is fading down. Darker and bluer. ‘Lots of things Moomintroll thinks aren’t exactly true.’

She sinks down a bit, snout back in her paws. 

‘Here’s hoping one of those things isn’t me being his girlfriend, eh?’ she says and maybe she’s trying to joke about it, but neither of them find it very funny. 

Snufkin pretends not to notice. He sits on the log next to her and fiddles about for his harmonica. When he starts to play, she leans against him again and Snufkin wonders if he’s a bad friend after all. The thought lingers in his song like a false note.


	8. Moomin + Moon

There’s water everywhere.  
  
It’s raining and it hits the seawater like pebbles. Moomin stands with his feet in the shallow waves, listening to the world. It’s a rush in his ears and the _plink-plink-plink_ of thousands of raindrops landing in the sea. The world feels so full it’s like there isn’t even room for the air to breathe.  
  
Moomin likes the world like this. He likes when it’s full like a cup overflowing or a garden where all the vegetables are ripe and bursting from the ground. Moomin truly thinks there can be nothing sadder than for something to be empty.  
  
He looks up and the sky is the colour of a stovetop. It rumbles, somewhere far off in the distance and the clouds shiver with it. Between them, briefly, Moomin can see the moon. The sky has no room left either.  
  
Moomin tilts his head all the way back and opens his mouth to catch some rain. Rain doesn’t taste like water from the well or from the pipes. It tastes distinctly other.  
  
‘Moomintroll, Moomintroll!’  
  
Moomin looks out across the beach, surprised there’s anyone out in this frightful weather. Or he is until he sees who it is. Snufkin is walking along towards him, yellow lantern in hand and rain running off the brim of his hat like from a gutterdrain.  
  
‘What are you doing out here so late?’ Snufkin asks, a frown on his face. The lantern makes him seem all the more serious with the dark shadows it makes.  
  
Moomin shrugs. ‘I could ask you the same thing.’  
  
Snufkin tuts at him. ‘I’m always out. Late or not.’

‘Not much of an excuse that, mate.’

‘Do you have better?’ Snufkin asks, coming up closer but he stops at the edge. The waves just reach the tip of his boots. Moomin holds a paw out and Snufkin gives him a look. ‘Not the best weather for swimming.’  
  
‘We’re not swimming,’ Moomin tells him and keeps his paw out. Snufkin hesitates, but he bends low to set the lantern into the sand and takes Moomin’s paw. Once he does, Moomin tugs.  
  
He wades out further into the water, up past his knees and drags Snufkin along with him. They’re already soaked after all, what difference should it make? 

It makes some to Snufkin it seems, who shrieks at once as he’s pulled in. The water here goes from ankle to waist very quickly, the bar near a foot drop. It’s dangerous; Mama never used to let Moomin swim alone as it would get deep too fast.

Luckily, neither of them are alone.

‘Now we’re swimming!’ Moomin says brightly, the tips of his toes just brushing to the sand below. 

He catches Snufkin where he suddenly sinks, smock rushing up to the surface with the plume of water. Snufkin’s eyes are wide, breath stuttering with the shock of it. 

‘You’ll drown me!’ he says, half-laughing and he holds onto Moomin’s arms very tightly as Moomin holds him just under his own. ‘I can’t swim like you.’

‘I can swim well enough for both of us,’ Moomin says gently, as he can feel how quick Snufkin is breathing with his paws where they are. He pulls Snufkin close to him. ‘And I won’t let anything happen to you.’ 

Snufkin lets himself be pulled in. His hands slip up to Moomin’s shoulders and Moomin’s paws go down, steady Snufkin at his waist. They float in the water, rain shattering the surface all around and when the clouds part again, the moon shines on it like white rice grains.

‘You never answered my question,’ Snufkin says, voice shaking. He’s shivering and Moomin feels guilty quite suddenly for the jest of pulling him in. ‘Why are you out here? In the middle of the night, all alone?’

‘Not alone anymore,’ Moomin says, dodging the question. ‘It’s a full moon tonight.’ 

‘Did you come out here to wish?’

Moomin looks at Snufkin. His eyes are so dark; like coals, or some other thing that burns. Looking at Snufkin makes Moomin feel a deep, heavy hurt. A grief. 

‘What do you wish for, when it’s a full moon?’ Moomin asks him instead and Snufkin blinks slowly at him. Under the water, his boots tread water by Moomin’s knees. 

‘For my tune, usually.’

‘You have to wish for that?’

‘Well,’ Snufkin says, ducking his head. The rain runs off his hat and onto Moomin’s snout. ‘Perhaps not the tune itself. But more the hope someone will like it.’ 

‘I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t like your tune. I love it before I even hear it,’ Moomin says gently, perhaps too much so given the noise of the rain on the water.

Snufkin is still watching him and Moomin is narrow inside, too narrow for the love to go through and it sticks like a gear. He tightens his grip on Snufkin under the waves, feels where Snufkin trusts him with his weight. 

‘Do you ever want anything, Snufkin?’ Moomin says, desperate to turn his heart around. ‘Anything? Ever?’

‘Enough to wish for it?’

‘Not even that much. Just wanting something simply because to have it would make you happy?’

‘When I’m with something, it’s mine,’ Snufkin says and he squeezes his hands into Moomin’s fur. Above them, thunder rumbles closer and the clouds hide the moon. They float in the dark water as though flying. ‘This ocean is mine, because here I am in it. That thunder, too. As long as I’m here, it belongs to me.’

‘What about the things you want when you’re not here?’

Snufkin licks his lips. ‘If I can’t take it with me, then it’s not very fair to call it mine, is it?’

‘Suppose not,’ Moomin says and he knows Snufkin can see him better in this dark than vice-versa and he blinks quickly to hide how his eyes are stinging. ‘I want things that aren’t here all the time.’

‘Oh?’ Snufkin breathes like the waves in Moomin’s paws; up, down. ‘What kind of things can’t you find here in Moominvalley?’

‘I find them sometimes,’ Moomin says and they both jump at another crack of thunder, closer again. Snufkin looks up and Moomin loves him.

He loves him. 

‘I just can’t keep them,’ Moomin finishes, quiet and hurt. It always hurts, to remember. Snufkin looks back down at him, rain running off his nose. 

‘So that’s why you came out here? To find the moon and wish you could keep them?’

Moomin shakes his head. 

‘I wanted to remember that not having one thing shouldn’t mean everything else is empty,’ Moomin says and Snufkin tilts his head, eyes like stones. ‘So I came here because the sea is never empty either, is it?’

‘Not right now,’ Snufkin says, pressing close and smiling. ‘We’re in it.’ 

‘Yes,’ Moomin replies, breathless with the look on Snufkin’s face and his small, funny body in his paws. ‘At the very least there’s us.’ 

‘Oh, Moomintroll,’ Snufkin says, pushing away slightly again to bob along himself. ‘Not least by any means!’

Moomin takes that like something precious and if he had pockets, he’d put that in one of them and carry it with him. _Not least._ Not having all is not the least.


	9. Moominpapa and the Mymble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus addition of a oneshot I wrote for my tumblr with no prompt.

_The Mymble is so large a creature,_ Moominpapa thinks as they sit together on the veranda. 

She towers over him, even sitting at the table like this. Broad shouldered and proud, perhaps she might’ve been a towering woman had it not been for the sweetness of her face. Orange-haired and with pink on her cheeks, she’s someone to be admired and savoured like a fine peach, Moominpapa thinks. She blossoms like a garden. 

Perhaps that was what enchanted the Joxter so when first they met. The Joxter had always looked for things soft and creatures gentle, somewhere kind to lay his head. 

Moominpapa pops on the bit of his pipe, feeling a grief he thought long soothed by now. 

‘Do you think of him still, Mymble?’ he ask, smoke billowing with the question in the dusk air. The Mymble hums.

‘Think of who? I’ve had a great many _hims_ to think of, you know.’ 

‘Our friend.’

‘Our friend?’ Mymble repeats, fidgeting with the collar of her coat. ‘We have many of those, too. Each of us. Friendly creatures, we are.’ 

Moominpapa sighs. ‘If you don’t know who I mean perhaps that’s my answer so. Never mind, eh? Some things might be better forgotten.’

‘You only think that as you’ve never forgotten anything, Moominpapa. You don’t give yourself the chance the way you write it all down.’

‘And you don’t seem to give yourself much chance to remember. You’re the best forgetter I know, Mymble.’

‘I practice every day,’ the Mymble says with a small laugh. Her laugh sounds like a door closing; a subject closed. Moominpapa is not a creature for finishing things early, himself. 

‘Perhaps I ought to give it a go,’ Moominpapa says, a nag in his chest. It tugs him towards the ocean, towards a funny feeling inside that runs ahead, looking at him over its shoulder. ‘A wound forgotten may be less prone to hurt.’  
  
‘I wouldn’t say that. Easy to knock a bruise when you think you don’t have it.’  
  
They both stop as something crashes in the house behind them. It seems the children have found something worth breaking. Moominpap grumbles and puffs his pipe, glancing to the Mymble for an apology that doesn’t come. Ever since he’s met her, the Mymble breaks something that doesn’t belong to her.

‘He took our son with him, you know. Our friend,’ the Mymble says abruptly and some smoke goes down the wrong way. Moominpapa coughs, but the Mymble is mild like when she speaks of any of her many children.  
  
Moominpapa sees her long fingers twitch though.  
  
‘Woke up that morning to find them both vanished. I had thought they might come back at first, but it was soon time to move along myself and if they ever did, it was too late for me.’

Moominpapa pats his chest, trying to clear the smoke. The Mymble sighs.

‘Tiny thing was the only child I didn’t lose on purpose.’  
  
They’re both quiet then as Moominpapa tries not to think about the great mess of it. He finds he can’t manage it all too well, nervously chewing around what he might say were he a little braver and instead asking;

‘Do you miss him? The little one?’

‘Oh, yes. I miss all of them when they’re grown and gone. Even the ones I don’t remember leaving. When I call for them and remember they’re not there to call for, it’s rather like they leave twice.’  
  
The Mymble laughs again, holding a large hand to her mouth as she does. Her skin is soft from baby-oils and bed linen.  
  
‘But I’m so terribly absent-minded,’ she says, shrugging her great shoulders. ‘I’m always looking so far ahead to when they’ve already passed through, that I rather forget to see them where they are right now. So easy to lose someone like that.’

Moominpapa thinks about that for a long while. ‘Do you forget everything that hurts you, Mymble?’  
  
‘I certainly try, but things can get so muddled,’ the Mymble says brightly, as though she’s had some great idea. She looks to Moominpapa, smiling and he wonders where her cares hide on so fair a face. ‘Have you really never tried it yourself, Moominpapa?’  
  
Moominpapa thinks of his memoirs. Of all the things he’s written and all he’s not. When told the right way, the past can be as familiar as it is a stranger and Moominpapa wonders if that’s forgetting in it’s own way. And then, of course, there’s Snufkin to think of though Moominpapa often tries not to.  
 _  
Would there be great harm in it?_ Moominpapa thinks for the hundreth, thousandth time since Moominrtoll had brought Snufkin home that very first time.  
  
The Mymble is already ahead past the missing and Snufkin at the beginning, before he even knows to grieve at all. And then there’s the Joxter- wherever he may be and every time Moominpapa thinks of him he thinks there may be great harm awaiting indeed.  
  
‘If I started to forget things, dear Mymble, what would I do with all my secrets, eh?’ Moominpapa says, letting the smoke out through his nose and it swirls grey in the evening air. ‘They’re not like children, after all. Some things need to be kept.’  
  
‘Hmm. Not one for keeping things, myself,’ the Mymble says, patting Moominpapa’s shoulder as she gets up. Standing, her shadow covers him entirely. ‘Secrets, or children or indeed anything between.’  
  
There’s a terrible lot between a child and a secret, Moominpapa thinks but he just makes a small noise of agreement. The Mymble heads back into the house, just as Moomintroll comes out. The door closes and Moomintroll plops himself down into the chair the Mymble has just left.  
  
‘Papa, I’m going to lose my mind if I see them break one more thing in there,’ Moomintroll says, rubbing the end of his snout which a quick glance over is shown to have what appears to be some jam stuck to the end of it. ‘I don’t know how Little My stuck it. No wonder she ran off.’  
  
‘Yes, yes,’ Moominpapa replies, eyes out on the bridge far below. ‘The Mymble’s children have a dreadful habit of bringing a mess with them, all right.’


	10. Sniff + Nightmare (Comic by wholemleko)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniff + Nightmare: comic version, by the very talented and endlessly lovely wholemleko

_Links to original:_

[Part One](https://wholemleko.tumblr.com/post/632710215254589440/part-1-of-a-comic-based-on-the-short-fic-sniff)

[Part Two](https://wholemleko.tumblr.com/post/632710219245420544/part-2-of-a-comic-based-on-the-short-fic-sniff)

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot even begin to say how grateful I am to mleko for the beautiful art ♡ Please, please do check their tumblr out! They're so talented, and incredibly nice!

**Author's Note:**

> www.boorishbint.tumblr.com


End file.
